One Knight's Return, page 8
What was her history? How long had she been alone at Annossy? He had assumed that her parents had recently died, but now he wondered. It was clear that she resented the loss of command over her family holding, but why had she expected it to remain hers to administer?
Quinn had a hundred questions but doubted she would confide in him.
If he had hoped for his intended to approve of the change in his appearance and be more welcoming as a result, Quinn was to be disappointed. She took his arm as if she could not bear to touch him and Quinn’s annoyance rose. He saw Bayard note the lady’s reluctance and did not doubt his comrade would have advice for him on the morrow. He was irked and marveled again that this lady should have the power to so rile him when he was known for his temperance.
She did not appreciate his assets and that was the sum of it.
Quinn was not so foul to look upon, and he was a knight. He would hold Sayerne, though it had no wealth in this moment, but he was resolved to rebuild it. He was prepared to labor for his goals and to treat his lady wife with the respect such a woman deserved. But it was evident that Melissande had condemned him.
Was her hatred of his father so profound as that? If so, they shared that view. One would think they might be able to build upon that common ground.
Of course, they could only do as much if his wife spoke to him.
He had to wonder what precisely she knew of his father’s deeds. Was her attitude the result of some old crime? Or did she simply look down upon all who were not of the line of Annossy? It could well be that such a lady had been raised to believe that no man was deserving of her charms.
Quinn did not know whether to take reassurance from the possibility that her dislike of him was not personal.
Indeed, there was something about this lady that annoyed Quinn, yet at the same time, he felt an uncommon desire for her. It was dangerous for a woman to have such power over him, and he could only hope that it diminished in time.
Perhaps their wedding night would see his characteristic calm restored. Her beauty made him keenly aware that he had been celibate for the entirety of his journey on crusade. Was that the reason for his annoyance? That he was more than ready to celebrate their match and she was not? Was it merely pride?
Ye gods, what if she denied him this night? What if there was no evidence of consummation to show Tulley in the morning?
Should he feign it, by shedding his own blood on the sheets?
He was caught to be sure, between the lady’s desire and that of Tulley. Tulley, however, could exact the higher cost.
Quinn led his bride to the altar, wondering if he made a dreadful a mistake in taking this frosty lady to wife at all. Would he rue this day for the rest of his life? The priest began to bless the match with the familiar words.
In truth, Quinn had no choice. The dream of Sayerne had sustained him for years. He supposed it was no surprise that Tulley had guessed the truth.
Those attacks upon Annossy’s borders must vex the old lord more than Quinn had realized. Tulley must believe his holdings were at risk, which made Quinn and Melissande pawns in the older man’s game.
If Melissande did not thaw this night, Quinn resolved, he would avoid her. He would cut his own finger to give Tulley the sign he desired, then Quinn and the lady would separate. Between their two estates and the work required to rebuild Sayerne, it should be simple to do.
There was an old saying: wed once for duty and thence for love. Perhaps his next match would be one of the heart. He found himself thinking of his mother, and his heart filling with sadness as the priest blessed them.
If naught else, Quinn could do better than his own father.
“And the ring?” the priest invited.
Quinn realized he had not planned for this exchange, but then he had been given little opportunity to do as much. He looked down at the golden ring on his smallest finger and resolved to offer it in the spirit of a joined future. “It was my mother’s,” he said quietly to Melissande, then removed it from his hand. He held it over her left hand, over each finger in succession. “In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Then he pushed the ring onto her middle finger, the same finger his mother had worn it upon.
“Is it your sole token of her?” she asked, looking down at the ring.
Quinn could not read her mood. “Aye. She surrendered it to me as a token when I left.”
Melissande nodded and eyed the ring, her thoughts hidden from Quinn. Something in her seemed to have softened at the mention of his mother.
“You may seal your pledge with a kiss of peace,” the priest said.
Quinn glanced down to find Melissande watching him intently. Her eyes flashed, though he could not have said whether it was fear or desire. Then she dropped her gaze, hiding her thoughts from him once more.
But she had responded to his touch before. Could there be promise in this match?
A man could only try.
“Aye,” he replied to the priest. “One must adhere to tradition.”
Melissande inhaled sharply. Did she dread his kiss or her own reaction to it?
There was only one way to know for certain.
Quinn touched a fingertip beneath Melissande’s chin. Her gaze rose to his and she turned to him, both of them taking a step closer in the same moment. Quinn liked how they moved instinctively together and chose to see promise in that. He moved slowly, determined to reassure whatever fears she might have. Her eyes closed when he cupped her face between his hands, but Quinn did not intend to let her hide from him so easily.
“Open your eyes, my lady,” he whispered. “I would have you certain of which man you wed.”
She did as he requested and he glimpsed uncertainty in those magnificent eyes. Had she been abused in the past? Or was she innocent and unaware of what must come between them? Either way, her response launched a protective urge within him. Quinn smiled at her, his heart leaping when she tentatively smiled back.
She might meet him halfway, after all.
“To the future,” he murmured then bent to brush his lips across hers.
Melissande quivered, then sighed. She tasted like wine and cinnamon and her kiss filled Quinn with the same sweet warmth as earlier that day. Well aware that they were watched, he slanted his mouth across hers to demand a little more while they were in company. She hesitated, then leaned against him, her hands upon his chest and her lips parting in unexpected invitation. Quinn’s hand slid to her nape and he lifted her closer, deepening his kiss with satisfaction. The lady froze, then responded with an ardor that made Quinn’s heart thunder.
It was only with the greatest effort that he recalled their place and put her aside. To his pleasure, the lady’s eyes were shining when he lifted his head. She smiled at him, her expression more welcoming than it had been thus far. Quinn was tempted to toss her over his shoulder and make for a private chamber before this moment passed, but the priest cleared his throat.
“Is it not wonderful?” the other noblewoman said with a sigh. Her eyes were shining. She was fair, like Melissande, but younger.
“My niece,” Tulley said gruffly. “Heloise von Idelstein.”
Quinn bowed over the lady’s hand and she smiled at him and Melissande. “I love weddings,” she confessed. “I cannot wait for my own.”
That comment, Quinn noted, banished his lady’s smile. Melissande sobered, regal again, and slipped her hand into his elbow. They might have been strangers and he saw Bayard’s brows rise as that man noticed the change, as well.
“Yet wait you shall,” Tulley said to Heloise. He adroitly steered his niece to his side, ensuring that she was distant from Bayard, whose eyes gleamed with mischief. “The cook has assembled a wedding feast on short notice,” he continued. “Let us proceed to the hall and savor the results of his efforts.”
Disappointment at the change rose within Quinn until he recalled that Melissande had not smiled during their first encounter. He made progress in easing the lady’s concerns already and would take each victory as it came.
Perhaps she feared the night ahead. Any maiden would. He would have to ensure that their mating was enjoyable—for a fine wedding night would set the right tone not just for their shared future but their happiness.
Clearly what Melissande needed was a goodly quantity of wine to dismiss her reservations.
Quinn would ensure that she had it.
Chapter 4
If the wedding feast had been a war, Melissande would have lost before the first foray.
It was clear that Quinn launched an assault against her senses, and it was one she could neither deny nor evade. He had the experience in this endeavor, which left Melissande susceptible to his every assault. He was seated beside her, on her right, with Tulley on her left. Quinn’s comrade, Bayard, was on Quinn’s right, and Melissande guessed that to be a choice by Tulley intended to keep his niece Heloise at the greatest distance from that knight. Heloise was on Tulley’s left.
She had seen at first glance that Bayard had a twinkle in his eye and more than a measure of good looks. Heloise was already casting glances at the two knights, which Tulley either blocked or ignored. Melissande had seen him glare at Bayard once and that knight seemed to have taken a warning. He flirted with Berthe, who appeared to take umbrage from his attention, a reaction that prompted him to tease her yet more. If Bayard thought to make an easy conquest there, he would have to think again. Berthe would never indulge him.
Caught between Tulley and Quinn, Melissande felt surrounded by those who desired her match to be a success, and worse, who cared little for her own view.
She was snared, and by the time the night was through and the match consummated, she would be secured as Quinn’s prize.
The meat was good, the wine was better, and the occasional brush of Quinn’s elbow against hers was enough to keep her tingling from head to toe. The marriage vows had been exchanged before witnesses and she was bound to respect them. She felt the weight of his ring upon her hand, an unfamiliar burden. The gold had been warm when he granted her the ring and she had seen the grief light his eyes when he spoke of his mother. How and when had Jerome’s wife died? Melissande did not recall exactly, and wished she had paid more attention. She had been young. She knew Jerome had had a daughter but not met Annelise, for she had been sent to a convent as a young girl and had only returned briefly to Sayerne. Was that of import? How Melissande hated that she did not know. She could feel the heat of Quinn’s thigh close beside her own and was well aware of the hard strength of him. She heard his low voice at close proximity—indeed, she felt it as a vibration deep within her. The sensation was not unwelcome.
It might have been the wine and not the allure of her new spouse.
In fact, Melissande was certain her cup was enchanted. No matter how much wine she drank, there was always another sip remaining. It was most curious and a puzzle well beyond her current capabilities to explain. Had she ever consumed so much wine in one evening? She could not recall ever drinking more than a cup or two, but on this night, she had no reliable tally.
Two from Berthe in her chamber, then this cup which seemed to have no bottom. Why, there was yet another mouthful within it! Melissande drank the wine and when next she looked, the cup was full again.
Worse than the muddle of the wine—or perhaps because of it—Quinn could not be ignored. He placed his hand upon the back of her waist when he leaned forward to confer with Tulley and the weight of it felt both proprietary and thrilling. He offered her the best parts of the meat—indeed, he even fed morsels to her, his eyes twinkling with an admiration that had to be feigned. He laughed at Bayard’s comments and told Heloise about Palestine’s wonders and captivated all at the board. He neither provoked her nor ignored her, but seemed to approve of whatever she chose to do. The man sought to beguile her and Melissande was shocked by his success.
Indeed, she found herself intrigued by her spouse, even though she knew that curiosity was treacherous. It was but a step from curiosity to concern and she knew it well. But still, she wondered.
Why had Quinn gone on crusade? Had it been merely Tulley’s suggestion or was there more to that tale?
Where had he earned his spurs?
What were his other alliances?
Why did Tulley hold him in such affection? Was it simply because Quinn was a man and a knight, or was there more of a bond between the two?
If he had left twenty years before, then she had been very young, too young to even know of him. What had her father known of him?
How did Quinn imagine he might rebuild Sayerne? She knew how much labor it would be and that it was nigh impossible, given the lack of coin and villeins at that holding. Did he have no real idea of what lay before him or was he simply optimistic? She could not imagine that he was a fool.
Would Melissande have thought differently of Quinn if she had first encountered him as he appeared on this night? She did not wish to be one whose opinion was governed by appearances, but she had to admit that she would have given this Quinn more credit. Aye, he was cursedly handsome, the man who had taken her to wife. Now that he was clean, it was impossible to ignore his allure. Yet he was not one to court the affection of every woman in the hall. She could not fail to note that. He was attentive to her, granting that dangerous smile to her alone, as should be.
How could he be Jerome’s son and share so little of that man’s wicked nature?
Or was Quinn simply better at disguising his truth than Jerome had been?
Melissande could not decide. Clearly, it was to his advantage to win her approval. Perhaps once she had surrendered to him, his charm would vanish.
As the evening continued, despite her doubts, Melissande found that sweet and unfamiliar hum of awareness building within her. It was a spell that Quinn had cast and even knowing that, Melissande enjoyed the sensation. She watched Quinn’s deft handling of his knife, admiring the grace of his hands. She smelled the heat of his skin and felt his warmth. Her heart nigh stopped when he pressed the length of his thigh to hers and did not move it away again.
Indeed, she could not take a breath, she was so shocked.
Tulley talked about the merits of barley as opposed to rye. Quinn leaned forward, apparently intent upon Tulley’s counsel. His hand was on her back again and Melissande felt her very blood simmer. She sipped her wine, seeing that her hands trembled when she placed the cup on the board. Quinn’s hand moved on her back, a lazy stroke of his thumb along her spine that melted her bones. He did not glance her way, as if he were unaware of the contact. Melissande was flustered beyond all. She did not move away, but found it impossible to follow the conversation.
“You planted barley at Annossy last season, did you not?” Tulley invited.
“Aye.” Melissande nodded, smiled, and seized her cup.
“And it fared well?” Quinn asked, almost whispering in her ear.
“Aye,” Melissande ceded, unable to summon a more authoritative response. She sipped from her cup again, relieved when Tulley abandoned his efforts to include her in the discussion. He turned to explain to Heloise the various kinds of grain that prospered locally and their merits.
Quinn’s thumb never halted. Now, he made circles on her back, enticing little circles that made her mouth go dry even as that heat spread further.
She realized that she wanted to touch him. She wanted to slip her hand beneath the table and place it on his thigh. She wanted to feel how different his body was from her own. She wanted to explore him, and that curiosity shocked Melissande truly. Did marriage make a woman wanton? Quinn laughed at a comment from his comrade Bayard and she decided she liked the hearty sound of his laughter.
“My lady?” Berthe said from behind her.
Melissande saw that the meal had been removed from the board.
It was time.
Melissande drained her cup and this time, it remained empty. Quinn’s hand closed upon her elbow to support her as she stood and she was aware of how much she needed that assistance.
“Do not trip, my lady,” he advised, his voice pitched low. Melissande felt a tide of terror that the moment was nigh upon her. Quinn gave her elbow a little squeeze and she found him smiling at her. He kissed the back of her hand, his gaze glowing. “I shall be along shortly,” he murmured, as if that was promise not threat.
Melissande stared into his eyes, astonished that she was soothed by his words.
“Aye, husband,” she managed to whisper. His quick smile sent a jolt through her. She turned hastily and the room spun. Quinn’s grip tightened on her one elbow and Berthe caught the other so that Melissande regained her balance.
How much wine had she drunk?
“Come along, my lady,” Berthe said.
“Do you need my assistance?” Quinn asked.
“Nay, nay, nay,” Melissande said, her panic rising anew. “Stay and enjoy the minstrels.” She turned quickly and stumbled anew.
Bayard had stood and he quickly steadied her. “Whoa!” he declared, then gave her an engaging smile.
“I thank you.” Melissande was surprised to find that she felt no reaction to his touch.
There was a puzzle, for Bayard was not hard upon the eyes. He had a charming smile and a confidence that many a maid might find alluring.
But not Melissande.
She turned and crossed the hall hoping her fear did not show.
“My lady, let me aid you on the stairs,” Berthe said.
Melissande felt Quinn’s gaze upon her but did not look back. The stairs required every measure of her attention. It was curious how they shifted and moved. Melissande knew that they had not acted in such a manner before, but this was yet another puzzle best left for later.
She conquered them with Berthe’s aid, as well as the hall above, which seemed to have developed a markedly uneven floor. Finally, they reached the chamber and Melissande sighed with relief. A fire burned brightly in the brazier and there were four lanterns lit, as well. The bed linens had been changed and turned down. The import of that could not be mistaken.
